Moving at the speed of time, we circle dizzily –a small headache’s worth above the ground –close enough to see a thin trickle of waterspill wetly into the Sound,close enough to count trees and see pellucidlythe shape and colour of their windy forms,close enough to want to touch the rusty soil& dip brave fingers in sun-splintered waves,close enough to die.

landing

Into the fields on trails of flattened grass,squirming past a hinge-hung functionless doorinto the ripe scent of wetted hay, shit & mother-milkwe creep humbly, like shepherds after the star,to find kids as sweetly passive as kittens,and the piebald billy purring – goat-style –to our subtle horn-scritching. A billymuch unwanted & due at some paschal feastwith his three male mates.

Candles in the barren window, loaves of waldron wheat,chicks silenced by the coming of the night,men in their beards of authority;frogs croaking in massive chorus,stars as clear as our eyes.No fog, no delusion,not a whisper of a bump.